Women's Voices Unite

June 07, 2010

Raising Aidan-stein

Some parents are sure their child will grow up to be the next Einstein; my husband an I are just hoping our youngest will stop acting like Frankenstein. I used to cut him some slack because he was approaching Terrible Two. After all, two-year-olds are expected to be unruly monsters. During this time my little Aidan-stein wrote on my kitchen cabinets with permanent marker. I had to forgive that offense because he's so darn cute. Then he developed the not-so-endearing habit of climbing in my bed at 2:30 a.m. and kicking me in the face every fifteen minutes until 5 a.m. I let that slide since he was a very effective human alarm clock.

When he turned three I expected that Terrible Two was over. Finally, my Aidan-stein would grow some restraint, tact, foresight, wisdom, even. No. As it turns out, one month into the third year of raising Aidan, this is not the case. This morning, as I languished in the pre-dawn euphoria of a quiet room sans bed visitors under three feet tall, (the height requirement sign is clearly posted next to the bed), something very awful happened. There was a reason why Aidan-stein was not ignoring the sign and kicking me in the face. It was not because he had suddenly accepted sleeping in his own bed.

First I was awakened by a noise coming from the den. It sounded like a moving chair. Upon further investigation, I discovered what looked like a little boy in the dimly lit kitchen. I thought the oil slick off the southern coast of the United States had somehow reached the shores of Long Island and ...my den. I gasped, ready to sue BP and call the White House. However, as I pulled up the shade it became clear that I was the one to blame for this mess. I remembered that I recently allowed a lapse in Christie House Child-Proof Security.

Last week the little plastic lock on the refrigerator door broke, and I failed to replace it. After all, I thought, my youngest is three years old now, practically a man, soon to be off to college. I stood by the broken lock daydreaming. In my mind's eye, my Canary yellow sports car was hugging the winding roads of Europe.

But no! This mess was clearly "my bad," my friends. Aidan-stein was covered from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes in chocolate syrup, and all I could think to do was to run since I don't own that car yet.

As I considered fleeing the scene, Aidan-stein blamed the whole mess on his sleeping sister.

"Sissy did it, not me. Call the policeman, Mama."

There he stood, ready and cheerfully willing to give a statement to the police implicating his sister, as he clutched the bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup against his pajama shirt and licked his fingers. The chocolate tracks all over the house fit his footprint. The refrigerator door was wide open. It didn't take me as long as an episode of 48 Hours to figure out that this boy was not a victim, but he was in fact, guilty of being a complete Aidan-stein.

Then I did what any enthusiastic, energetic supermom without a sports car and a one-way ticket to Europe does at 6 a.m. on a weekend morning. I started to cry and went back to bed. My husband cleaned up.